We have a prowler in our neighborhood.  At least that’s what all the old ladies say. Now they can’t tell you if he’s tall or short, thick or thin, white or black or anything of that nature because no one has ever seen him (or her) but everyone is frightened to death of him.

Apparently, the red-necked neighbors across the street were the first to be hit.  They had a hand gun stolen from their car just before Christmas.  Their story is that in a locked truck full of Christmas packages and other things of value a hand gun that was not readily viewed was taken from them.  Let me tell you a little about these neighbors…first they have pissed off everyone in the neighborhood at one time or another.  At first the old ladies were pissed because they were living in sin.  The woman in question is about 4 feet tall and 4 feet wide, her significant other is heavier and is disabled.  They live together because they get more money from the government each month that way than they would if they were married. Shameless!  I was okay with that…a little disgusted, because I have an active imagination and I have seen them…but okay.  Then they called and asked us to be on the lookout for a rogue kitty.  Apparently, this bad cat had been fighting with their “Miss Millie” and now she was afraid to go outside.  If I can in touch with the beast, would I please capture it and call the animal control officer or just kill it? I’m not pro Peta, but I am against killing animals just for tickles and grins. Then they built the two story chicken house.  No one knew, when they first began building, just what was under construction.  No one knows still, and the building is complete.  It appears to be a twenty-four foot structure to house a mobile home.  The top half is peaked and both ends are open, and it is at least twice as large as the R.V. it houses.  The thing I know for sure is that every morning when I walk down the stairs the first thing I see is that ridiculous building, and in my heart I know that I will never be able to sell my house.  Now all of this has nothing to do with anything except that I think that someone who knows this couple stole their gun, and I think it may be one of the neighbors.  What I’m afraid of, is that they think it is me.

The old women have left no stone unturned to try and find this “prowler”.  They have sent out two well worded newsletters to the neighbors.  The first stated that the prowler “may have been seen wearing a red shirt.  However; it is possible that he will change his shirt.”  Wow!!  No one dared wear red for a good two weeks after that scathing document was sent out.  The most recent letter told us that if any of our street lights went out, we should contact the city.  They would take care of the offending light.  You betcha’, cause the city has nothing better to do than change the light bulbs on the street of a bunch of scaredy cat widder wimmen.  They also recommended turning on porch lights and carriage lights at night.  Well, we’ve been doing that for years and were the only ones.  Now the neighborhood is lit up like China town on New Year’s Day.  One morning at 3:00 a.m. a police officer came ringing the bell and wanted to know if we had seen anyone strange in the neighborhood because the next door neighbors had reported seeing the prowler looking into their window transom.  That transom has to be 12 feet high, and the old man who made the report is edging on ninety years old.  1. What in the hell was he doing up? and 2. How tall is this effing prowler?

This is what I believe to be true…old people are paranoid.  A house in the neighborhood behind ours was apparently robbed, and now every foot fall in the neighborhood is a potential predator.  The neighbor’s across the street probably heard about the robbery and filed a police report about the “missing” gun without regard to whether or not there ever was a gun.  There is always insurance to be filed.  The neighbors who saw the intruder were up…probably due to leaky plumbing (and I don’t mean the pipes) and saw a reflection in the transom, and if the old dude was wearing red pajamas I think we have solved the mystery.

The best thing about living in a neighborhood that is seventy-five percent over seventy is the great stories you get from all of the neighborhood criers.  I get to hear about who has what, and who’s kids treat them right and who’s kids don’t, and what everyone had for dinner.  The neighborhood newsletter is full of crap with a capital C and most of the time it’s pretty amusing.  I know the Polish lady down the block is broke and her children take care of her.  I know the oldest woman in the right hand lot of the backside of the cul-de-sac has no children to take care of her, and is bitter towards those who do.  I know that the busdriver’s widow has a family that doesn’t show affection, and the new guy that just moved in four doors down on the left had “track lighting” installed.  But what I never knew until we had a possible prowler was that old men nearing ninety with bad prostates grow to be 11 feet tall in the middle of the night.  Trust me, that is far more frightening to me than a prowler could ever be.

In our house, as a rule, my husband is up until 5:00 or 6:00 a.m.   The younger neighbors who work and have children start milling around by 7:00 and I am up by 10:00 or so.  It would be incredibly hard for anyone to find a quiet moment to break in.  I guess it could be done, but why risk it.  The rest of the neighbors have closed their curtains, and drawn their blinds.  Not us.  If there is someone looking in the window, I want them to see that we are up and around almost 24-7.  If he (or she) should still decide to break in and disturb my beauty sleep, God help them.  I have been know to get my dander up for less.   Prowlers come and prowlers go, but wrinkles last forever.

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